Marie-Thérèse’s dress was more red than it was orange, Midhat thought, and he appreciated the diffuse quality of the satin. But he nodded nonetheless; it was unusual to have Jeannette’s attention like this. Since his arrival a week ago she often smiled at him, but only from afar, and she did not engage much in conversation. Her father on the other hand pestered him with questions whenever he could, most often at breakfast. Sometimes Jeannette joined in these discussions—just that morning, for example, she appeared to enjoy explaining the difference between très, trop, and tellement, the last two of which they discovered had no direct Arabic equivalents. But more often than not she slipped from the table before they were finished and disappeared into some remote quarter of the house, and Midhat did not see her again until he returned from the Faculty in the evening.
“That man talking with Carole is Carl Page, he works in a bank. His mother is a friend of Sarah Bernhardt’s. His son has already been called to Ypres. And that one in the red cravat is Xavier, my cousin, Marian’s brother. He is studying law. And Laurent, he is also at the Medical Faculty. I will introduce you.”
Laurent was a tall blond man, stooping to talk with a squat fellow in a bowler. Jeannette did not, however, make any motion to initiate an introduction. She continued:
“With him is Luc Dimon. He owns the largest vineyard in the region.”
“And these are all friends of the bride?”
“The ones I have named. I don’t know the groom’s party. They are mostly from Nice.”
Docteur Molineu was now in conversation with Patrice Nolin near the entrance to the dinner tent. There was something girlish about Nolin’s appearance. His eyes were far apart and his cheeks had a high colour. Molineu’s face was puckering with animation. That was exactly how he looked at breakfast, jumping with excitement whenever they encountered any phrase that could not be translated.
The crowd began to move, and a footman raised an arm by the tent entrance. Midhat’s name, spelt “Monsieur Methat Kemal,” was written beside Jeannette’s on the board. They collected slices of fowl in brown sauce from the table at the back, and as they took their seats Sylvain Leclair appeared across the table, alongside Luc Dimon.
“Le jeune Turc!” said Sylvain Leclair.
“Actually,” said Jeannette, “Monsieur Midhat would call himself a Palestinian Arab.”
Midhat glanced at her. Something thawed in his chest.
“So, Monsieur l’Arabe,” said Sylvain, pulling out his chair, “what brings you to Montpellier?”
“Medicine,” said Midhat. “I am studying medicine at the university.”
“Escaping the barracks?” Without moving the rest of his face, Sylvain Leclair winked. “This is my friend Dimon—Luc, this is a young Arab man, staying with the Molineus. Monsieur Mid—quoi Mid—ha? He is here avoiding the war.”
“Sylvain,” said Jeannette.
“I’m just playing. Dimon owns a vineyard. The largest in the region. With the best wine.”
“Ho ho, how do you do. Sylvain is very modest, he is an excellent vigneron. But you know, we all had trouble with the blight, it was an awful thing.”
“Some of us had more trouble than others. Did you know about this, Monsieur Kamal? It attacked the plants. They were very, very small.” Sylvain curled his forefinger inside his thumb. “Phylloxera vastatrix. Une petite friponne. The little grues destroyed my entire vineyard. The vine leaves all had little balls on them. This is a Clairette Languedoc, would you like to try, Monsieur Midhat?”
“No, thank you. Yes, a little. Thank you.”
“How did you come to know the Molineus?” said Luc Dimon.
“My father contacted the university, and Docteur Molineu kindly offered himself as a host.”
“The sacrifices,” said Sylvain. “Tell us some things. We’d like to know all about your way of life.”
Midhat could not tell if Sylvain was mocking him. “Excuse me?”
“Midhat, may I introduce you to Monsieur Laurent Toupin.”
Jeannette moved back in her chair to reveal the tall blond man on her other side.
“How do you do.”
“Enchanted to meet you,” said Midhat. He turned his head, and a crisp breath of wind from a gap in the marquee alerted him to the sweat on his face.
“He speaks French well,” said Laurent.
“He does,” said Jeannette. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Laurent took Jeannette’s vacated seat. His sleeve was rolled before the elbow, and his forearm was covered in wiry blond hair.
“You know, I think I have seen you at the Faculty … you are very recognisable. I am in my fourth year, but you have just started? How have you found it, the classes? The first year is a little boring, I remember, you have all the preliminaries in the sciences. But have you started the clinics?”
“Not yet,” said Midhat. He took a deep breath. He was conscious of Sylvain Leclair, swilling his wine across the table from them. “Next week, I believe.”
“And you are enjoying it? I love medicine, I really do, I love the Faculty. It’s the best discipline in the world. We are at the very tip, the edge, pushing into the unknown. You know, they say you can look out there into the unknown, or you can look in here. People are so afraid of it, and that’s why. But—is it common to visit France to study medicine, for men in your region? I imagine the traditions must be different. I mean, it was only two centuries ago they were using Avicenna’s book in the Faculty, but I imagine things have diverged since then.”
This mention of Avicenna struck Midhat as artificial. He realised Laurent was trying to impress him, and warmed to him instantly.
“We have a university in Cairo,” he said. “It is a good university. There is another in Beirut. But more and more men from Syria are studying in Europe, in England, France, Germany. And the same is happening in the other direction. Though not for university of course. We do have good universities … they are not the best. The best is Europe, everyone knows that. But they use the French way, too, in Syria and Egypt.”
“Interesting. You know it’s very interesting to meet you. Jeannette tells me you are a Muslim. There was an Oriental who graduated from the Faculty the year I began, though actually now I think of it I believe he was Christian. Anyway, they aren’t common here but certainly he was a good doctor.”
“Midhat, how are you, is everything fine, everything going well?”
“Yes, thank you Docteur.”
“Stop calling me Docteur now Midhat, I am Frédéric. You have met Laurent, I see. Laurent it’s good to see you. Your hair is too long, however.”
“The army will cut it soon enough.”
“Ah, pff. Patrice, Patrice, come and meet Midhat Kamal. Here.”
“Enchanté.”
“Patrice is my colleague now, we are in the same discipline. It used to be the human body for him, and now it is the social one.”
“Frédéric. Un livre, seulement un livre.”
“So you don’t think you will return to the university at all?”
“As I’ve said, the problem for me is that when the war begins … immédiatement c’est fini, ou sinon immédiatement, assez vite. No more free thought, no more free … exchange.”